


Moon

by tobylove (orphan_account)



Series: Ronnie & Clyde [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Childhood Friends, Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, One Shot, Romantic Friendship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, i like one shots, kind of?, okay so i lied, they keep me busy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 22:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12921216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobylove
Summary: three little things that hung Stan up; that made him love Richie.you've gotta have that lana del rey, summertime sadness kind of love.





	Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moxielovesshipping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moxielovesshipping/gifts).



> i'm garbage? yes. please forgive me. i like reddie and stozier.... sorry i don't make the rules.....
> 
> finals are coming up one shots are the way to go//

i. He hated a lot of things about Richie; things that he thought that maybe Richie couldn't control.

Things that didn't matter, but did matter all the same--Richie's wide grin, his jagged teeth, the dimples in his cheeks, the way he looked with a cigarette in his mouth; the way he looked like when he laughed. The tacky stick-and-poke heart on the inside of his wrist. He hated his messy room, his messy truck, his messy hair, his messy life. Well, he had a messy _soul,_ more rather--one that was all over the place and wired and fun and free.

He hated his face the most--figuratively, he meant. Because it was beautiful and foreign and it made him scared. Richie had dinner-plate eyes and galaxy hair; he cast the world in a full moon even when the sun was out. Some Adonises' were carved from stone; Richie's soul was made from light. They rode in his truck, his messy truck, going down some stretch of land or some deserted road, and neither knew where they were going. He didn't really think they cared. He hated that the sun cast a gleam on the stray hairs on Richie's head; it gave him a halo.

He hated his goofiness, how he seemed to always have it together, even when he didn't--even now, as he drove, he had his window down and was weaving his hand through some imaginary hoops, and it looked pretty and mystical in the midst of the setting sun. He wished that he could be like Richie; that he could be like that. Not wear his heart on his sleeve. Literally.

All good things must come to an end was always his philosophy; Bill had left for greener pastures, for Audra, and he was happy for him--really. He hated that he allowed himself to get so close to Richie. So attached. He had put up this wall in high school, some wall he thought was impenetrable but somehow Richie was able to break. He hated that Richie was so sweet when he wasn't fucking around, so kind and so caring. He _hated_ that. But the main thing that he hated about Richard Tozier, the one that he put the most stress and emphasis on was: he was able to make him feel an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time.

_Love._

 

ii. "I think we should just get a hotel for the night," Richie said, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He looked at him, or how he always put it, right through him. "Don'tcha think?"

"Whatever you wanna do," he said, still trying to give Richie steam, still give him that "fire and ice", still try to rebuild that wall and push him onto the other side. But Richie wasn't having any of that.

 _"Staaaaan,"_ he whined, over-exaggeratedly, but it was so characteristically _him._ "It ain't just about me, you know. If you wanted to keep riding, then we totally can, my guy. Or we can stop somewhere and get like a wink of sleep or something."

Yeah, there were things that he wanted to _ride,_ but on that subject, he wasn't even going to give Richie's egotistic ass the time of day. It was... weird when people asked his input on things. Bill had done the same thing, back in high school. Why did people care about him? And why did people leave? He never blamed Bill, he never would, but he started to collect bricks that day. He'd be glad to hand Richie some more.

Or not, if it meant he'd never leave.

"Well, I guess we can stop somewhere," he said. He kind of wish he never did. But it made him smile when he thought of the universe.

Richie had clapped his hands together with finality. "Great! Well, I know a good motel around here, and we can stay in there. Real cheap, too. They only have one-bed rooms, though.

"You think I'm staying in a motel," he answered, trying to make his voice as flat and apathetic as possible, but Richie could see through his front. It was almost like he could hear his heartbeat, like he could feel the pace quicken and it throb in his throat and pulses. He shook his head no, but Richie laughed.

"You scared to share a bed?" He asked, but he put on this little girl's voice, and it came out as _'you scawed to shawe a bed?',_ and he hated that, too. He felt the corners of his mouth rise into a smile. His body betrayed him.

"No, dumbass," he mumbled, and he threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine. Let's do it."

 

The motel's seedy fluorescent lights really... _set the mood,_ but there was really no chance in that. He fantasized about Richie the way he used to fantasize about Bill, but instead firey hair like the sun was replaced with the vast and infinite. He did fantasize, yes, and his thoughts derailed--laying back on the bed, letting Richie's hair spill on his chest and neck, like twinkling stars, dark bite marks on his jawline and throat. He didn't even realize that he was getting called until Richie came and sat on the bed next to him. 

"You good, dude?" he smiled, but he could see the concern laced in his eyebrows.

"Oh, uh. Yeah," he said lamely. "Just zoning out for a bit."

Richie had already dressed down to pajamas--just normal checkered bottoms and a wife-beater, and he didn't understand how Richie could make mundane things so extraordinary. "Ya brought pajamas, right? You gonna change?"

There were two problems now. One being that he didn't want to undress in front him for reasons, half because of his scars and the other half because of _love._ He wasn't a stupid guy by any means; he was very intelligent, very sharp wit, and his wit was just as calculated as his feelings. So he knew somehow, in his heart, that Richie could _probably_ be his, but not forever. He would leave him.

And the other just being that he forgot a shirt.

"You can wear one of mine," Richie offered almost immediately, tossing him a shirt, and he wasn't going to object. It smelt like him, and he wanted the scent to be on his skin. He wondered if he could do this without being too overt.

But instead he undressed in front of him anyway. And he anticipated a negative reaction when Richie saw the littering cuts, but he got a wince instead.

"Stan, dude. What happened?" Richie asked, but he suspected that he already knew the answer. He walked over, resting their hands on top of each other. He wouldn't pull away from Richie's touch, he wouldn't dare, but he was terrified to be forced to show this level of vulnerability. He didn't really know where to start; he felt like the entire universe was in that room, closing in the walls, swallowing him up. But he didn't suppose that was a bad thing.

"Don't hate me," was all he could muster, and he hated the strained, choked tone of his voice. He felt tears welling up in his eyes despite himself. Richie made a _pssch_ noise with his mouth, almost dismissively--their hands still laid intertwined, only tighter.

"Aw, come here," Richie said, pulling him in closer to him, littering his arms with more kisses than there were scars, it seemed. He felt like the daydream was coming true--he was being showered on by Richie's care, his empathy; he gave him a piece of space and spread kisses on his arms like comets, like glitter, like...

Like stardust.

 

iii. The morning came and his eyes hurt because of the light streaming in the room through the blinds. Richie was still asleep, his hair tickling the back of his neck, snoring lightly, and he didn't have to look back to know that he was still so handsome and ethereal. He took the opportunity to smell the shirt, letting his defenses down for only a second or two. He didn't wake Richie up, he just waited patiently until he awoke his own; he just let him sleep, like the moon does during the day.

"I know where we're going," Richie said when he woke up and they were well situated, and the inflection of his voice didn't have any of the playful tones it usually did--this one he wasn't used to. It was a dreamy, faraway tone, almost assertive. He took another cigarette and his lighter, lit up, and blew smoke out to the side. The light streamed on his face again, and there was that familiar feeling: deja vu.

"And all this time I thought you were just dragging me along to nowhere," he said, and snickered when Richie laughed.

"Oh, nah man. I want to take us somewhere else. I wanna go back home. I wanna go to California. Like, we can run away together. Just you and me, Stan--to California. We can build a life together there; it'll be great. You and me against the world, remember? Just Ronnie--"

"And Clyde," he finished, and gave Richie a genuine smile. He got one back.

He let Richie wrap his arms around him, and he put his head on his shoulder. Now the light streamed on both of their faces, and both of their stray hairs, giving both of them halos. They never made it to California, and that told him well enough. He knew they couldn't stay like this. He knew that they wouldn't last forever, even though he wanted it to, and Richie felt so divine and infinite. He knew they couldn't be some pseudo-criminals. He knew one day Richie would wake up and feel the burden of him and move on, and they would just be friends again. And that's all they ever would be.

But he hated Richie for doing that. Making him feel like it would last forever. Even though it wouldn't, they both still wanted it, this idea of Los Angeles--Richie made him feel like it.

And he _loved_ him for that.

Who knew what was out there in the vastness of space. Maybe one day Richie would look at him and feel a love for him that wasn't strong enough, not the love he wanted him to feel. Maybe Richie would get a new boyfriend, one with the package deal: freckles and brunet hair and hypochondria, and maybe Richie would be crazy for him. Maybe that short little anxious kid could ruin their idea of LA. Of San Fransisco. Of Hollywood.

But that wasn't now, and right now the universe had its' arms wrapped around him and was calling for him. And when the universe called you, you went. He wanted to be a part of Richie's galaxy, to be stardust or the Milky way or the sun forever. He was bright like satellites, he glimmered like stars, his smile like fire, his eyes like the moon.

It couldn't always be like that, though. And somehow he braced himself for it; somehow he knew it. He wasn't good enough for Richie, to be loved by him--how could a speck of dust be loved by space and time?

But Richie got a guy that was just for him. An angel. Or at least he would treat him like one; following his footsteps as if the ground he walked on transformed into gold. Despite the obsessive-compulsive tendencies, despite being a bundle of nerves and anxiety... he and Richie were on the same playing field. Richie thought he was otherworldly, too. Good enough to be in the galaxy.

He didn't care if this new guy would would be an angel. He didn't care if he was sprouted from a tree or crafted out of sea foam. He just cared that he would be good enough.

He would take his moon away, right out of the sky.


End file.
